


Take My Hand (I Won’t Let Go)

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon is a Blackfyre, BAMF!Brynden, Brynden Rivers Sets Things Right, Comfort fic, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Greenseeing, House Blackfyre, House Stark, House Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows something, Jon and Tyrion Are Family, Jon and Tyrion Deserve All The Hugs, R plus L equals J, Targaryen and Blackfyre United, Targaryens are immune to fire, Tyrion Lannister is a Targaryen, Wargs, Wish Fulfillment, family fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: Run away with me. Let’s find a home for cripples, bastards and broken things. There’s so many wonders in the world and I want to find them with you. Run away with me, Lyarra Snow. (When Tyrion Lannister meets a shivering, frostbitten girl with milkglass eyes, he knows he’s found home.) fem!Jon, blind!Jon





	1. Chapter 1

Tywin Lannister was in his cups. 

 

Tyrion didn’t know why but he knew the reason must have been dire indeed. His father rarely allowed himself such a lapse of control. A lapse for the Lord of Casterly Rock though was an opportunity for his dwarf son. He wondered which benefit he could squirrel away from his father this time. More books? A greater allowance? Perhaps even permission to travel!

 

The Imp cleared his throat as he approached his father's desk. Near immediately, hard orbs of jade stared him down. Even piss drunk, the white-whiskered lion was formidable. "Father?"

 

Tywin snorted. "Imp? Begone with you! You are no son of mine."

 

Tyrion was undeterred by the refusal. A lack of any regard from the man who sired him was not uncommon, though that didn't detract from the pain. Each slur thrown was a minor cut to his skin but a thousand and one cuts had Tyrion Lannister suffered.

 

"I would like to speak with you, Father. I have a request to make."

 

"Oh? Is the library of my House inferior to your taste?" Tywin hissed, referencing a common request from him. There was an atypical slur to the man's words, a stench of spirits clinging to his fine tunic. "Shouldn't be surprised by that, should I? Your lily-livered brother hadn't thought highly of it either."

 

_ 'Lily-livered brother? That is an odd way to describe Jaime.' _ His brother was not famed for his extensive readings nor his Father known for insulting the golden son. "A few more books would only add to the grandeur of House Lannister's library."

 

"Aye but what would you care of House Lannister, Imp?" Tywin reached for his bottle and poured more into his glass, shaking it to let  the last few drops through. The younger lion could spot another two empty bottles littering the floor. "You are a bane in my home."

 

"Yes, Father. Of course, Father," Tyrion answered dully. He considered whether to make the retreat now but knew he would need written permission to have the Maester order more books. Otherwise Lord Tywin would claim he had never given such permission and withhold his allowance.

 

"Don't call me Father,"' Tywin ordered, taking a deep gulp of Arbor Gold. "It insults me each time you utter it, hearing the word from the cursed spawn that stole my Johanna."

 

"Yes, F- Lord Lannister." Tyrion clenched his fists but said nothing. Any witty retort that he could have devised dried on his tongue like droplets of rain in Dorne, at the mention of his mother.

 

"He mocks me every night, in my dreams for the liberties he took," Tywin lamented, "But that I could kill you without incurring the name of kinslayer."

 

"Who mocks you?" Tyrion asked, curious despite himself. He knows that he should hurriedly receive his permission and leave but the chance to ferret out his father's secrets is too tempting. 

 

"Aerys," the old lion grunted. "The madman who stole away my son and left me to claim his scorned, disfigured and broken seed."'

 

Tyrion's brow furrowed in confusion. Stole away? As with the Kingsguard? "Father?" 

 

_ "I told you not to call me that! _ " Tyrion nearly jumped back as his father's voice rose to thundering heights. "I am  _ not  _ your father! I sired one son and one alone!"

 

"I- Yes. Yes, of course." Tyrion's eyes flickered over the table for a spare piece of parchment and an ink well. He sidled closer, his blue eye focused on his father while the green one looked at the desk. "If you could sign something for me...?"

 

But now it seemed that as Tywin Lannister began speaking, he lost the will to stop. One hand, calloused and scarred from however many years deciding the fate of men in field and court, flashed out to grab him. A whimper left the dwarf's throat as his wrist was caught in a vice grip, his smaller body easily pulled up to Tywin's glassy stare.

 

"You killed your mother, boy," Tywin whispered lowly. His son immediately stiffened in his grasp. "You were cursed from the moment Johanna begot you. From the moment she caught Aerys' eye and he forced her to lay with him. She came to me crying, dress torn and skin blue from where that monster had choked her throat. Do you understand that, Imp? Do you understand that you were conceived when your madman of a father  _ raped  _ my wife?"

 

Tyrion started trembling, shaking his head over and over again as the words spilled forth.

 

"When I learned she was pregnant, I begged her to drink tansy tea," Tywin continued, face a rictus of anger and grief, "But Johanna resisted me. She told me that there was a chance it could be mine own child. She told me that a babe didn't deserve the sins of his father, that Jaime and Cersei would love another brother or sister, that she already loved you. But I knew you would be a demon and when you were born, tearing your mother in two as you came into this world, I knew I was right. Johanna could never see it. She loved you. She loved you even as she drowned in the blood you'd brought."

 

By now, tears were making silent trails down the dwarf's face. He had stopped struggling, merely looking at his father with a plainly horrified gaze.

 

"You were your father's son from the very beginning," Tywin informed him, releasing his hand but appearing satisfied when the Imp stayed rooted to the spot. "The little hair you had was pale silver, your eye violet. Eventually one darkened and the other turned blue but I looked at your too-large head and weak arms and legs and knew that Aerys had put a monster into my home. A monster just like him."

 

Tywin leaned back and regarded the dwarf coldly. "I should have thrown you into the sea when I first saw you but I did not. It was Johanna's dying wish that I keep you and I refused to become a kinslayer on your behalf. But make no mistake, Imp. I hate you. I hate everything you are and everything you have done to me. I will never see you as mine own son and I will die before anyone would grant you lordship of Casterly Rock. I wish you dead and every time that Baratheon fool snarls about dragonspawn, it takes all I am not to admit your blood to all and sundry so that he may take your head for me." 

 

Then, leaning close until the cloying scent of wine on his breath was near choking, Tywin said, "In my dreams, there lay two corpses at my son’s feet."

Finally, Lord Tywin of House Lannister slumped back, apparently finished with that strange burst of rage that had him confess this secret. He left behind Tyrion, still reeling from the words thrown at him, tears casting pale rivers on his cheeks. Unable to speak or to act, unknowing of who he could turn to for comfort, the dwarf spun on his heel and fled. Had anyone cared to view the sight, it would have been to a child-sized man with misshapen eyes, stubby legs, gold and brown hair and a bowed head rushing out the door.

 

x 

 

_ ‘You need to go north to Winterfell. You’ll find someone special there. You want to visit the Wall. It’s one of the sixteen wonders of the world. You need to go north to Winterfell. You’ll find someone special there. You want to visit the Wall. It’s one of the sixteen wonders of the world…” _

 

Brynden Rivers repeated the words over and over again. He hoped desperately that the message would cling to his kin’s grief-addled mind despite the distance between them. He felt his own shame in orchestrating that revelation, knowing well that Tywin Lannister’s poisoned tongue would not keep from lashing out at his bane but accepting it as a necessary evil. When these damned Children of the Forest had kidnapped him from his position and bound his life force to these roots, essentially keeping him chained to his visions, they cut his connection to his family. Brynden could still see his brother’s descendants through the trees and occasionally by his dreams but his words never reached their ear. He had the powers of a minor god in human flesh but he was helpless to the threats that killed off his kin one by one.

 

Brynden Rivers was a bitter, wizened and cynical old man, he could acknowledge that. He had a deep hatred for many things. He hated this suffocating prison that stole the moon and stars from him and often made him think that he had been buried alive. He hated his captors, smug little demons that they were, stealing him in the dead of night to solve a problem they themselves created. The Children should never have broken Bran the Builder’s pact; Bryden would have gleefully watched their entire species wiped out by the Others had Westeros not also been at risk. He hated Brandon Stark, even though he had never met the little brat, as he suspected his future student of driving Aerys’ mad. Not that his descendant hadn’t been succumbing to madness eventually but the wholesale burning of King’s Landing wouldn’t have occurred if the brat knew how to pass on a simple message. Bryden was also fairly confident that Jaime Lannister would have had time to save his many times grandniece and grandnephew had he not been shellshocked with Aerys’ murder. He hated seeing his family die and most of all, he hated, absolutely  _ hated _ , being helpless.

 

And the Three-Eyed Crow  _ was _ helpless. Despite knowing all that was, all that is and all that will ever be, Brynden Rivers was bound to his fate. He was bound to pass on his skills to a wolf that looked more like a trout while seeing two of his last, most decent kinsman suffer. Visenya Targaryen was one of the purest, most noble souls he had ever seen in his House and she would be forced to sacrifice over and over again, while being kept hidden from her own true blood and potential. Kindness didn’t come as easily to Tyrion Hill but his own compassion was perhaps more admirable. Raised in a lion’s den of avarice and malice, it was to his credit that Tyrion tried so hard to be a good man. 

 

Mayhaps they had received some kindness from their respective mother’s Houses but it was not nearly enough for Brynden. Visenya had Uncles who loved her and that feisty wolf-girl but she deserved not her Aunt’s nor her female cousin’s censure. She certainly didn’t deserve to be forcefully married off to a monster like Ramsay Bolton in an attempt to legitimize House Bolton’s hold on the North. Tyrion had distant affection from an aunt and the love of a brother but one was insufficient and the other weak-willed to his sister. Everyone else in his immediate family was either disinclined to protect him or actively derided the dwarf. He also didn’t deserve to die a painful death by his half-sister’s hand, after using his cleverness to save the family that spited him at every turn.

 

No, as far as Bryden was concerned, the blood of dragons shouldn’t be spilled for the sake of wolves or lions. Red or black be their scales, dragons do not yield.

 

Not that his opinions mattered much when he was chained as he was. Brynden had resorted himself to watching those two march obliviously to their eventual suffering when a miracle occurred. His prayers to the Old Gods, the only ones worth worshipping in _ his  _ opinion, had been answered. Lyarra Snow had been struck with another strain of pox, even stronger that the one she had suffered as a babe!

 

It seemed a cruel event to celebrate but the Three-Eyed Crow had found an opportunity. There was magic of Old Valyria and the First Men brimming in Visenya’s blood, power that could only be drawn out through personal loss. The Children had intended to arrange an incident for Brandon Stark to utilize his own greenseer gifts and left an opening in his contract, sworn by the True Tongue, to contact the wolf when his gifts arose. It was limited to one wolf alone to ensure that he didn’t contact anyone else afterward. A wise precaution as otherwise one of Brandon’s siblings would have been alerted to drag the little brat back home before Brynden got stuck with him.

 

Nonetheless the conditions had been fulfilled. Visenya was a wolf. She had suffered a great loss. Her gifts were awoken and Brynden was more than happy to slip into her dreams as the contract required. It had to be done on the sly for no doubt those pointy-toothed demons would try and stop him if they knew. His own powers were too powerful to escape their notice but none knew of Visenya’s awakening and he was a genius mage. It was not above his abilities to warg (gently) into her subconscious, temporarily adopt her powers and set his plans into motion. 

 

Brynden Rivers would give Visenya and Tyrion what those Starks and Lannisters never had: the freedom to take their own paths. He would allow them to escape the fates determined for them, grow outside of the expectations burdened on their shoulders. He would help them learn that they were more than products of sin, that they were dragons and that even had the world turned from them, they could rely on one another. And they would. Visenya would give Tyrion the unconditional love he needed and Tyrion would offer Visenya a chance to fly proud and free. They would be more than the Gods intended for them and should they choose to flee their responsibilities altogether? Well Brynden Rivers had a simple answer for that.

 

Let Westeros suffer. House Targaryen had paid more than their fair share of fire and blood for them.

 

x

 

Tyrion Lan- no, it was Hill now, wasn’t it?- had woken up with red-rimmed eyes, a pounding headache and a sore back from sleeping curled up. There hadn’t been a single wine bottle around him, which made the Imp look around in confusion until his memories returned. Oh yes, that’s why he felt like shit. He had just learned that his true father was a pyromaniac madman that his (half) brother had stabbed in the back for wanting to burn a city alive. Not to mention that he was the product of rape, who had killed his own loving mother when he was born.

 

Also Tywin Lannister hated him but that was nothing new.

 

Tyrion looked at his hands, too small for a man grown, softened from the blade that he had never learned and the reins that he had never held and felt like a little boy once more. All he wanted was to track down his big brother and have Jaime jape over his ink-stained fingers before making him a blueberry ice. Then he remembered that Jaime was in King’s Landing and had killed the last dragon king and probably didn't know he was a dragon, else he would have despised him like all the rest.

 

_ ‘What am I to do then?’  _ Tyrion’s eyes wandered around his room. Every shelf and chest and wardrobe overflowed with books of his own, one even tucked under his bedsheet. There were books on dragons there, he knew. He had wanted so desperately to see a dragon one day but Jaime had told him that they were all dead and gone.  _ ‘Ha! Shows what you know, Brother! You had a dragon right in front of you and you didn’t even know.’ _

 

A black dragon though, not a red-scaled one. Tyrion had often thought that all imps were bastards in their father’s eye but he really was a bastard now. Unexpectedly, he found himself laughing at the idea. Now he had something to share with his nephews above them all riding the same-sized pony!

 

When the laughter died down, the dwarf's insides still felt giddy. A wild, almost mad, grin crossed his face as he spun around and around. Eventually he toppled to the ground and then his head felt dizzy and nauseous too. ‘ _ What am I to do now?’ _

 

Tyrion was well-inured to the effects of drink. He knew his Fa- Lord Tywin wouldn’t recall the secrets that he had revealed. Should he simply stay silent and pretend not to have heard him then?

 

“I don’t want to,” the dwarf muttered petulantly. He looked up at the constellations that had been painted over his walls. There was once a time when he had dreamed of being a sailor and adventurer like his Uncle Gerion and had paid men to paint the stars for him to study each night. He would have been an excellent navigator. He knew all of them by heart: the Crone’s Lantern, the Moonmaid, the King’s Crown, the Ice Dragon…

 

Hmm, that niggled at something in his head. Ice Dragon? It’s eye pointed north, didn’t it? Uncle Gerion? He had given Tyrion a book by Lomas Longstrider on the sixteen wonders of the world. Most were in Essos but there was one close by in the North. A wall of ice one hundred leagues long and seven hundred feet high built by Bran the Builder. Bran was the founder of House Stark and Tyrion had a sudden urge to visit Winterfell, another one of the man’s creations. He had the sudden belief that he would find something rare and wonderous there.

 

Tyrion was not one to base his actions on mere whim, he was not Jaime or Cersei after all but Casterly Rock repelled him now. He had no claim to this grand old fortress, even if he was the son of Johanna Lannister. He wanted to leave. He wanted to see the Wall. He wanted to visit Winterfell and receive a nameday gift without having aged another year.

 

His course decided, the Imp of Casterly Rock, Tywin’s Bane and newfound Bastard of the Mad King jumped up. Mayhaps it was because his head was still fuzzy but everything felt like a distant dream as his limbs moved. He snuck down to the supply room and stole two saddlebags. One was filled with grain for his pony, with a small lunch and two pairs of clothes somehow shoved in. The other had gold. All of the coins that he had in his own chest and, when that filled the bag only a third of the way in, everything else gold that he could get his hands on. Tyrion looted cutlery, table statues, jewelry, fine combs and even the bag of gold found in Uncle Kevan’s room. Also the two Longstrider books.

 

_ ‘All fear Tyrion, Lord Reaper of the Rock and Ironborn Raider Without a Ship,’  _ Tyrion giggled. Gods, did his head feel fuzzy right now.

 

When he was done, he wrote out a quick note and left it within Uncle Kevan’s solar.

 

_ Leaving. Tell Jaime I love him. Tyrion _

 

Ordering the stablemaster to ready his pony who, in a fit of pique, he had named  _ Belarion _ , Tyrion left the gates of Casterly Rock. He didn’t look back.

 

On the course of his fortnight long journey north, Tyrion Lannister would be surprised by how easy it was. Despite being a child-sized rider on a slow pony saddled with gold and wearing nobleman’s clothes, he was never once harassed or even glanced at twice. Admittedly he had taken a precaution or two, like muffling the gold with folded parchment and embroidered handkerchiefs but people’s eyes seemed to almost glaze over him. This had to be the safest journey he had ever taken. It was almost as if a god of some sort was looking after him.

 

Leagues away, Brynden Rivers sneezed. “Damn winter chills,” he grumbled, blaming it on his demon captors. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 

“Lady Lyarra, mayhaps we should return to the castle now?”

 

The girl being spoken to lifted her head up, peering into a cloudy, mist-filled sky that her eyes could never see. She felt the delicate touch of early snowflakes falling to her nose and cheeks; imagined that the melted ice would drip off to reveal flushed skin. “Lady Lyarra?”

 

“Yes, let’s go inside,” Lyarra replied softly. She turned towards the direction of the voice, offering a smile to the unfortunate guard selected for her today. He was more cautious than the last, insistent on getting her to a hearth soon. He needn’t worry. Cold didn’t affect her as much since she woke from her illness with fire in her veins. She tried not to be resentful that they would have to leave so soon.

 

He was being kind. They were all being kind. It drove her mad. 

 

Lyarra had been born into the confined life of a noblewoman in Westeros, however tenuous her claim. She had been educated by a Septa, taught to sew and curtsy and dance, to bow her head and smile when she had rather cry, to be a dutiful daughter and sister and wife and mother. She had excelled in those lessons though hadn’t cared for them any but had also found adventures of her own. Lord Eddard Stark allowed his bastard daughter more freedom than most lords, especially as Lady Catelyn foreswore any claim to her education and Lyarra took full advantage. The dark-haired girl read books with Maester Luwin, explored Winterfell with Arya, practiced swordsmanship with Robb and even climbed the walls of Winterfell with Bran, whenever she could sneak away to do it.

 

Then last moon’s turn, the pox had struck Winter Town. Lyarra had survived a strain of smallpox as a child but she soon succumbed to this more virulent plague. Bran, Arya and Rickon had gotten ill too but they had recovered quickly. Lyarra had not. 

 

The dark-haired girl had been bedridden for a fortnight. The first days were spent with burning fever, aching limbs and becoming violently acquainted with the taste of bile in her throat. Lyarra had spent them shaking from the pain and begging more milk of the poppy from the Maester. The old man had let her a mere few sips of the drink before she succumbed to a fitful sleep. One that she did not wake from until a sennight past. When she opened her eyes, it was to complete darkness. The bastard had thought winter had come. Then she realized that she couldn’t see her hands.

 

Lyarra had screamed.

 

She didn’t think she could ever forget the events after. Ned Stark had thrown the door to her room open with such force that it sounded a cannon shot. Her father had gathered her in his arms, warm and unyielding and  _ there _ , while Lyarra thrashed in her bed. Barely a young woman at three-and-ten, Lyarra Snow had felt terrified and broken and alone. She couldn’t  _ see  _ anything _. _ She was trapped in the darkness and her eyes didn’t work and oh gods,  _ she was blind. _

 

Father and Robb had to hold her down, whispering reassurances that flew past her ears, as Luwin forcefully opened her eyelids. Pupils as pale and cloudy as milkglass had broken more than one heart. With a heavy voice, Maester Luwin had announced that the pox had stolen away her sight.

 

Lyarra was now a cripple.

 

Suddenly all of the freedoms and skills that Lyarra had taken for granted disappeared overnight. They wouldn’t allow her to walk anywhere alone, a servant at her heels within the castle and a guard out. Books could no longer be her refuge, one of her siblings, often Bran, had to be the one to read to her. Meals were presented with a single piece of cutlery, often soup and bread that she needn’t help to eat. Her lessons with a sword immediately ended and all of the others were temporarily halted, even needlepoint with Septa Mordane. A cane was commissioned for her use, not that there was any shortage of arms to guide her around her own childhood home. Everyone walked delicately around her, spoke carefully, as though afraid of upsetting the blind girl.

 

No one treated her like Lyarra anymore. Theon had made a single jape at her expense for dinner but after Robb decked him, he wouldn’t speak to her anymore. Her older brother hovered around her at all times, until Lyarra didn’t even need eyes to know when his hands were fluttering uselessly around her. Arya sounded miserable whenever they spoke, insisting on reading or gods forbid,  _ singing _ to her quietly in their room, rather than play. Bran clung to her whenever she saw him; apparently the idea of death had frightened the most level of her siblings. At two namedays, Rickon did the same though he evidently had no understanding of what had occurred. And Sansa… Sansa was being uncommonly kind and considerate to her needs.

 

The bastard suspected that Lady Catelyn didn’t even frown anymore when she saw her, though naturally, being blind she was unable to check her belief. And it seemed discourteous to ask one of her siblings to answer it for her.

 

Yet Lyarra wasn’t the same either. She had woken from her sleep with a loss of her sight but a gain of fire in her blood and a snarky old man in her head.

 

_ ‘You needn’t linger by the gate. The boy won’t be here until tomorrow.’  _ Brynden Rivers, her newfound however-many-greats Uncle said. The Snow had found him wise and begrieved once before realizing that grumpy was his default mood. ‘ _ Have you been practicing your warging child?’ _

 

_ ‘Yes Uncle.’  _ Lyarra thought obediently.  _ ‘I’ve managed to draw one of the hounds to me yesterday but I can’t warg into its body yet.’ _

 

The possibility of one day managing to do so, to  _ see _ the world again, even with the limited scope and faded colors of a hound’s eyes, had her brimming with excitement. It was a welcome change from the tears and self-pity that learning her true identity brought. Brynden Rivers hadn’t believed in quibbling, thus bluntly sharing the identity of her parents and then demanding that she ‘become a dragon’, whatever that meant. Lyarra had curled up in bed and sobbed for a day, before deciding that House Stark was her family dammit and it was foolish to be angry at her Uncle for lying to her. Ned Stark had only wanted to protect her and besides, he would have told her eventually, wouldn’t he?

 

Uncle Brynden had made some indecipherable grumbles at that before demanding use of her power to track down ‘ _ the most sensible of the four idiots Aerys sired’ _ . Lyarra hadn’t taken offense on her father’s behalf; deliriously in love or not, a married Rhaegar  _ had _ run away with another man’s fiance. She was far more curious to the news of another hidden Targaryen, one that the Three-Eyed Raven had claimed was ‘ _ not nearly as stupid as some of his ancestors’ _ . 

 

Tyrion Hill would be travelling north soon and however apprehensive Lyarra was to meet him, she was still also pleased. She had a name, she had two more family members and, if Uncle Brynden’s visions were true and Lyarra had no reason to believe otherwise, she had an alternative to a bleak future. It was daunting to step into the unknown but perhaps, just perhaps, she could find her own way to a better fate for her loved ones. 

 

x

 

Tyrion Hill soon found that the harsh climate of the North did not extend to its people. No, that wasn’t exactly true; the smallfolk here were far more self-confident, blunt and brisk than he was used to. There was less tolerance for word games and fripperies here, less respect afforded to the nobleman’s tunic he worse. A wariness entered their eyes whenever they saw his Lannister eye or golden-brown hair irrespective of his dwarf status. However, they were steadfastly loyal to their liege lord and polite to him. Directions asked were freely given, children were thin but not underfed, people greeted one another with swift but genuine warmth and a palpable sense of safety existed in the shadow of the great Northern castle. Tyrion suspected the cause to be the community measures necessary for everyone to survive the harsh winters in the North.

 

The unimaginatively named Winter Town was far smaller than Lannisport, so it didn’t take long for Tyrion to identify its sole two-story building as an inn. The dwarf ordered a room and meal for the night, once again receiving that strange non-look from the innkeeper and took a seat by the bar for some answers. However reticent these Northerners may be, enough pints of ale bought loosened any barman’s tongue. Apparently the Starks kept the lower gates opened on the sixth day of every sennight to allow the smallfolk to pray in their Godswood. The nobles often abstained from prayers that day, though any who cared to could visit the Great Hall afterward for a simple and hearty meal.

 

“The wolves look out for us here,” the man, who had introduced himself as Arnolf said gruffly, “The Maester comes down on the third day and on the seventh, Lord Stark hears petitioners.”

 

The barman was also kind enough to explain how a town with so many tidy rows of log houses had such a small population. Apparently the town was only filled to the brim when winter came around, to benefit from the warmth of the hot springs around Winterfell. Otherwise four out of every five houses were empty and also available for rent at an impressively cheap price. Tyrion, who didn’t even want a house here, was almost tempted to rent two. One could be his ideal childhood fort. 

 

“Do they open the library tower for the smallfolk too?” Tyrion asked hopefully.

 

The man gave him a queer look. “What would they do that for? Don’t need the Starks help if I want to stare at unintelligible squiggles all day.”

 

_ ‘Right. Most smallfolk don’t have any way to become literate, _ ’ the dwarf shuddered. A life without books sounded a depressing life indeed. ‘ _ Still these Starks sound like decent enough folk. _ ’

 

An instinct that Tyrion had never had before compelled him to stay away from the wolves though. Instead it drew his attention towards the Godswood instead. He had never see a weirwood before! Maybe it was time to find out why these Northerners and wildlings worshipped the trees.

 

In accordance to that, the dwarf woke up far before the crack of dawn the next day. A few copper stars bought him breakfast and directions to the Hunter’s Gate, which, inconveniently enough, meant riding halfway around the castle walls. Tyrion saddled his pony with every worldly item he owned, purchased a simple brown tunic and breeches at the market and then set off to find a godly tree.

 

The yawning guardsman let him through the gates without a single jape for his size. Tyrion was starting to think that he should have been raised in the North. He was unaware of the presence that slipped into the men’s minds afterward, wiping away any memory of the halfman with the heterochromatic eyes. Said man was soon traversing the nearby Godswood on foot.

 

_ ‘Log. Log. Moss covered log. A big stone. How much further away is this?’  _ Tyrion wished that he had his brother’s legs or at least that he hadn’t tied  _ Belarion _ to one of the bushes near the entrance of the Godswood. Jaime could have traversed this area with ease. Rhaegar and Viserys likely could too.

 

In a related complaint, how had he been born from two of the most beautiful bloodlines in Westeros and still ended up this deformed and ugly?

 

All of Tyrion’s complaints, and he had many with Jaime Lannister and Rhaegar Targaryen as brothers, died when he stepped into the center of the Godswood. It was as if a hush had suddenly fallen over the forest, though he could still hear the flutter of bird’s wings and the rush of falling water. There was a pond before him, the reflecting water still wafting off steam despite the snow-dusted lichen surrounding it. A bone-white tree was situated above it, the branches extending outwards, heavy with palm-sized, five-pointed leaves of crimson red. A face was carved into the tree, one that could have belonged to the Crone herself, with eyes that leaked thick red sap like tears of blood.  

 

Tyrion walked up to the face at the tree and knelt before it. A sense of peace enveloped him.

 

The Hill didn’t know how long he had been sitting there when he heard the rustle of feet on leaves and branches. His head moved towards the noise, one hand drifting towards his dagger but then drawing short when a slim girl staggered out. For a second, Tyrion wondered how a girl that delicate had made so much of a racket when traversing the woods before he caught her eyes. As pale as milkglass, cloudy and unfocused, and lacking a pupil. A sense of pity enveloped him; the child was blind.

 

It was evident in how she continued forward, her eyes pointed unerringly at nothing in particular. The slight imperfections to her clothes, one sleeve pulled too short, buttons mismatched and fur collar crooked. Her hair was loose, the occasional dark curl falling in front of her eyes and not being tucked back. She hadn’t worn a cloak and was shivering from the pre-dawn frost, chill evident in the flush around her cheeks and nose. Despite that, there was an attraction about her, light figure and fine features, full lips and a button nose. Even her moonlit pale eyes added to the ethereal beauty.

 

Tyrion cleared his throat when she was still several feet away. He didn’t want to frighten her, not when she looked rather like a Stark. Though Tyrion hadn’t heard Lord Eddard Stark to be so pretty. 

 

Her head spun unerringly in his direction and a hesitant smile broke. Had she been expecting someone? Oh Gods, Tyrion hadn’t interrupted a planned tryst, had he? “Hello,” he ventured.

 

“Hello.” The voice was stronger than he expected, almost eager. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Are you done praying to the Heart Tree?”

 

“Is that what this is called?” Tyrion asked back. “Ah, no. I don’t follow the Old Gods. I’m just here to satisfy a curiosity.”

 

“A Heart Tree is the name for a weirwood with a face carved into it. This one was done by Bran the Builder himself to hold the spirit of the ice.” The girl had a cane that tip-tapped its way forward, her footsteps tentatively following behind. 

 

“That’s interesting,” the Imp said, “I wouldn’t have thought ice would have an expression though.”

 

“This one was an old God and one that had seen much grief. He infused his essence into my ancestor’s Wall or so the three-eyed raven told me.”

 

“...I see.” He hadn’t expected the blind girl to be mad as well but she still looked harmless to him. The dwarf stepped backwards as the cane approached and the girl stilled at the sound. She crouched down and extended one soft hand, patting the ground for a firm spot of soil to sit by. “I’ll be going then.”

 

“Wait.” The girl didn’t quite frown but a melancholy expression crossed her face. It suited her well. “You didn’t ask for my name.”

 

“What is your name then?” Tyrion decided to humor her. He was tempted to offer his cloak as well but he would be leaving soon and therefore, didn’t bother. 

 

The dark-haired child leaned forward, as if to share a secret. In the hush of the Godswood, he mimicked her. “My Uncle named me Lyarra Snow.”

 

The line alone revealed several unexpected details. Tyrion didn’t know much about the Starks but he knew Ned Stark had six children and a brother sworn to celibacy. Five were trueborn and one a bastard; with the name of Snow, Lyarra must have been the one. Had Benjen Stark named her then?

 

“My Father named me Visenya Targaryen,” the girl continued, shattering all of his preconceptions. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Tyrion Hill.”

 

x

 

One moment, Lyarra was sitting uncomfortably on the cold ground, introducing herself to her Uncle. The next, she was splayed on her back, Tyrion Hill hovering over her in a position that could be easily misinterpreted had a dagger not been held to her throat. Lyarra offered him her most serene smile.

 

In her head, though…  _ ‘Uncle Brynden, why didn’t you warn me this would happen?!’ _

 

_ ‘Not my fault that the tapestry of the Wyrd was rewoven, Visenya,’ _ the old man sniffed. ‘ _ I’m still in the process of acclimating myself to the changes you’ve unintentionally wrought.’ _

 

_ ‘I thought Fate was supposed to be a river fed into by a thousand streams only you could see.’ _

 

_ ‘Don’t ruin my metaphor, child. Now say something before he decides to slit your throat.’ _

 

“Please don’t slit my throat,” Lyarra said. She felt a vibration by her throat, one that had her add softly. “You’ve never killed before, have you?”

 

“I have not,” her Uncle admitted freely. “Do not think that you cannot be the first.”

 

Lyarra’s smile faded and she focused her milkglass eyes, unnerving as they were, to the sound of the voice. “You are not a kinslayer.”

 

The dagger abruptly stilled at the mention of shared blood. “How do you know that?”

 

“The Three-Eyed Raven,” Lyarra answered simply. “You may think me mad but I have uttered no lie here. If you step back then we may speak and I will utter no lies then.”

 

“How do I know you will not run and expose my secret?” There was an undercurrent of fear in her uncle’s voice, one that held merit in a kingdom that would slaughter dragons freely.

 

“You can expose mine just as easily.” She could not read his expression but the man didn’t move.

 

“We are in your Uncle’s home and that Lord Stark claimed you as his bastard shows his love for you,” the Imp said. “His ears will be deaf when I claim your blood dragon but ready when you claim mine.”

 

“Then you think  _ I _ am a kinslayer.” Hurt bubbled up in her chest. It was true that she had never met this man before but to think so lowly of her? 

 

The words took time to form. “I do not easily trust.”

 

It was not an apology but the man did move away and Lyarra slowly moved her body back up. She decided to offer one in return, not because she thought him deserving but because she wanted,  _ needed _ , to establish a peace. “Nor should you. Blood may be shared but we have never met before.”

 

Again, Tyrion Hill waited to speak. “My… stepfather wanted to kill me for my blood. He would have done it, had he not been afraid of tarnishing his legacy as a kinslayer.”

 

Lyarra cocked her head to the side and considered those words. In light of that fact, Lady Catelyn’s actions were downright heartwarming. “My Aunt doesn’t like me very much. Father hasn’t told her that I am not his bastard.”

 

“If he’s not your Father, why do you call him such?” There was an honest curiosity in that voice.

 

Lyarra shrugged, a faint smile present. “I have never met Rhaegar Targaryen, though I acknowledge him as my Sire. My Father was Eddard Stark, the man who raised me in Winterfell for three-and-ten years. He accepted the scorn of siring a bastard, protected and guided me as any parent would and raised me to be the woman I am today.”

 

“The type of child that spills a secret that could lead to her death to a man that she has just met?”

 

“Yes.” Lyarra’s grin widened when her Uncle let an involuntary huff of amusement through. “Why did you come here Tyrion Hill?”

 

“I told you that it was at a whim. I merely wanted to see a weirwood.”

 

“No, I mean, why did you come to the North?” Lyarra leaned forward again. Although she didn’t know it, the early rays of dawn caught off on her eyelashes, briefly painting them silver and enhancing her milkglass eyes. “Why did you leave everything you had ever known to venture into the unknown? How did you travel here without any danger coming to you? Do you not think it odd that you came, on a whim as you say, to the exact place where another dragon would come? In all of Westeros?”

 

This silence was the longest yet. “Since you know all the answers, why don’t you tell me?”

 

So she did. Sitting down Lyarra related everything Uncle Brynden had told her: the truth of her mother’s abduction, the gifts that her blood afforded her, the salient points of their wyrds, the result of her illness and the hope she had for a better future. One where both of them could survive.

 

With a hoarse voice and clinging to the cloak silently placed around her shoulders halfway through, Lyarra was earnest. “We could tell my Uncle of our kinship. I am certain that he will offer you refuge here! We would be able to plan for the Game of Thrones years in advance. We can save all of our loved ones and put a worthy ruler on the Iron Throne. What do you say? Will you stay here?”

 

Tyrion’s reaction was surprising. “Not for all of the gods be damned gold in Casterly Rock.”

 

“I- what?” Confusion swept through Lyarra for a second before a crushing realization accompanied it. “You don’t want to stay here?”

 

_ You don’t want to stay with me? _

 

“I have just left the thumb of a man I despise. I will not be beholden to another’s man protection again!” Before Lyarra could be offended by the comparison of her Uncle to Lord Tywin, he pre-empted her. “Lord Stark may be far more honorable than Lord Tywin ever was but in the end, I’ll still be reliant on his generosity. I would still live in fear of his best friend coming north and killing me for my dragon’s blood! I will have to play nice to his wife- the woman who kidnapped me and started a bloody war for a crime I never committed!”

 

Those were… not untrue. Lyarra still persisted. “Where would you go though?”

 

“To the Wall,” Tyrion informed her. “I want to see the sixteen wonders of the world and by the Seven, I  _ will.  _ I want to ride a griffin and exchange riddles with a sphinx. I want to spend my entire purse at a Braavosi market and sample some Pentoshi cheese. I want to drink my own weight in Summer Island wine and fuck a Lysine pillow woman.  _ Gods, I want to live _ .”

 

“So that’s it?” Lyarra demanded, suddenly getting angry. “You flee to Essos, while the people you love die to a threat they don’t even know exists? What about your brother, Ser Jaime?”

 

“What about him?” Tyrion snapped back. “Jaime killed my father- your grandfather- and crippled your cousin. His fucking my sister led to a bastard in every sense of the word; a cruel idiot of a king that had your own uncle executed and beat your sister. Is that who you want me to suffer for?”

 

“Myrcella? Tommen? All of those other innocent people that have no idea what’s approaching them?”

 

“It’s not like the signs aren’t there! They  _ chose _ to close their eyes. You yourself admitted that you begged the southron kings for their help and that the only one who responded  _ burned his own daughter at the stake _ .” Lyarra slumped down, each word thrown felt like a blow. “I don’t  _ have _ to save any of them. They spent years spitting on me for being a dwarf. My own  _ sister  _ tried to kill me and even succeeded at the end. Gods, isn’t that humiliating? Being killed by someone as stupid as Cersei?”

 

Lyarra’s throat suddenly felt like it was being constricted. “Then you’re leaving.”

 

“Then I’m leaving,” Tyrion agreed. “Maybe not forever. Maybe I’ll send back warnings some day, to save Jaime at the least. He’s an idiot but he’s still my brother. And Myrcella and Tommen don’t deserve any of their future. I know that. But I also know that it feels like I’m being suffocated here and that I need,  _ I deserve _ , to go somewhere where I can breathe freely.”

 

The sudden vehemence of his words spent, they both fell into silence. The entire clearing felt all too large and too small both at once. Lyarra wanted to cry and rage all at once. She had just found another family member, one of only four dragons in Westeros and had suddenly lost him. Yet in her heart, she couldn’t even begrudge him the reasons for leaving.

 

“Come with me.” The words came suddenly and from the shock of them, to the equal surprise of Tyrion. “We can explore the world together.”

 

“I can’t do that.” She had to stay in Winterfell. She had responsibilities here, family here. She was  _ blind. _

 

“Yes. Yes, you can.” An enthusiasm was injected into those tones, the man rising up with the extent of his passion. “You deserve better too.” 

 

Lyarra didn’t know what her expression to that had been but the Imp continued fervently. There was the passion of genuine belief there. “If you stay here in Winterfell, then you’ll be stifled for your entire life. Your family will pity you, mayhaps even come to resent you, though I doubt that. Robb Stark will leave you to the dubious safety of Winterfell when he marches down to war. When Theon Turncloak takes the castle, you’ll be at his mercy and then Ramsay Snow.”

 

Tyrion paused and made an inarticulate noise of frustration. “I have nothing. My means are limited and while I may be clever, I’ve never been taught a trade. I cannot guarantee your safety and travelling with me will never provide the comfort of Winterfell. Gods, I don’t even  _ know _ you. We may end up driving each other mad. But if you come with me, I swear on my mother’s grave, that I will do everything in my power to guarantee your happiness. I will never chain you down. I will defend you with my own two hands, however little that may amount to. I will help you  _ live. _ ”

 

“Run away with me. Let’s find a home for cripples, bastards and broken things. There’s so many wonders in the world and I want to find them with you.” Tyrion reached out his hands, hardly bigger than Bran’s and wrapped them around her own. He squeezed them, trying to convey the depth of his sincerity. “Run away with me, Lyarra Snow.” 

 

x

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing from Brynden Rivers POV! Like most old men, he’s very set in his views, which is the traditional Targaryen mindset of dragons first, then the rest of the rabble. He also has quite a few opinions that he’s happy to share without anyone asking and a nostalgic memory for the ‘good old days’ when the Seven Kingdoms feared the Targaryen’s as they should.
> 
> Not sure if this will eventually spiral into a romance between Tyrion and Lyarra. I wanted to write one of those but I think really close, interdependent kinship is what these two need, with plenty of unconditional love to ease the way. This will be very AU by the way; I intend to have them hop around Essos for a bit before settling in Braavos and building a home there! Don’t worry, they’ll eventually return to Westeros. While Brynden doesn’t mind seeing an entire continent burn, Lyarra and Tyrion are too heroic not to do something. Not that Tyrion won’t ensure profit comes their way… 
> 
> To clarify, Lyarra is 13 and Tyrion is 24. I muddled with their ages a bit to bring the gap down. Canon starts after Lyarra’s 17th nameday.


End file.
